FRAMING RESILIENCE: AN INTERVIEW WITH SUSAN MEISELAS

In this exclusive interview, we engage with acclaimed photographer and artist Susan Meiselas (b.1948, USA), whose work has profoundly impacted the field of visual documentation, particularly in the context of conflict and social justice. Over her extensive career, Meiselas has focused on capturing the narratives of marginalized communities across Latin America, employing her lens to explore themes of memory, identity, and resilience.

The conversation addresses Susan’s innovative approach to collaborative photography, emphasizing her commitment to returning to the communities she documents and fostering a dialogue around the socio-political implications of her work. We delve into her reflections on the role of photography in shaping collective memory, the ethical considerations inherent in visual representation, and the influence of contemporary political movements on her artistic practice.

This interview provides valuable insights into the intersections of art and activism, illustrating how Susan Meiselas’ work continues to resonate in a world grappling with complex social issues. Meiselas joined Magnum Photos in 1976 and has worked as a freelance photographer ever since; she has served as President of the Magnum Foundation since 2007.

Tonight, Susan Meiselas will be honored at a private dinner as part of the 2024 WOPHA Congress, where she will also present her book Collaboration: A Potential History of Photography on October 24, 2024. This significant event is taking place at the Pérez Art Museum Miami (PAMM) and online, with additional activities occurring throughout South Florida.

The Congress aims to establish a vital platform for discussions on photography, focusing on the contributions of women photographers from the nineteenth century to the present. It brings together a diverse group of women photographers, art historians, theorists, and curators to enrich the historical narrative and foster a supportive network for women in the photographic arts.

Conceptualized by Latinx art historian and curator Aldeide Delgado, this edition—entitled How photography teaches us to live now—highlights the significant contributions of women and non-binary photographers in contemporary art and explores new approaches to fostering photography education.

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That concern, about how people see themselves and how I see them, is fundamental and has evolved through many other projects.

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Aldeide Delgado: This year, you co-authored the book Collaboration: A Potential History of Photography alongside Ariella Azoulay, Laura Wexler, Wendy Ewald, and Leigh Raiford, which we are going to present at the WOPHA Congress. One of the central premises of the book is that collaboration is the fundamental condition of the photographic event. Can you explain how understanding photography as an event, as a network of relations, has been essential to your work?

Susan Meiselas: You know, I must begin by being honest and say that the word «collaboration» wouldn’t have been part of my vocabulary when I began photography, but it was very much related to my practice from the beginning. I can look back and see the evidence of that, of a kind of sensibility and set of concerns evolving. That really begins with my very first project at 44 Irving Street, where I was contained in the space of a boarding house. I had a camera I’d never used before, a 4×5, which as an apparatus dictates a relationship but also creates an opportunity for a relationship. Unlike a 35mm camera, which allows you to move quickly and capture a moment of action, the 4×5 lets someone see the frame.

The first invitation to my neighbors, who I didn’t know, was to knock on their doors, ask if I could make a portrait for a class I was taking—my only formal photography class—and ask where they’d like to be in their room. It all began with a dialogue, not an assumption that I was there to take or make an image. I was making it in relation to them, but that relationship wasn’t necessarily one of friendship—they were strangers. It was an encounter, and I’ve learned a lot about the notion of the encounter over the decades. Some encounters are very singular, as these were, and not necessarily where I’m most comfortable as a photographer.

Another important thing to mention is that this boarding house was not a communal living arrangement, which was common in the ’70s. There were no collective commitments like sharing childcare or cooking; it was a much more isolated experience. We shared a toilet at the end of the hallway, a kitchen no one used together, and a hallway of isolated rooms. So, it was in that context that I developed a series of portraits.

After making a contact sheet from the 4×5, I’d bring it back to each person and invite them to respond to how they saw themselves differently from how the camera—or I—might have portrayed them. That concern, about how people see themselves and how I see them, is fundamental and has evolved through many other projects.

For example, in Carnival Strippers, every week I’d come back from Boston, where I was living at the time, and bring the women the work I’d processed from the weekend before. Some women were still there, others had left, and the managers would also see the images. Over time, trust was built, which became fundamental to this second stage of practice. That trust then led to including sound in the project—the voices of the managers, the men, and the women—so they could understand themselves within the world they inhabited.

This was very different from the dominant style of street photography in the ’70s, where photographers like Garry Winogrand and Lee Friedlander captured singular encounters. Carnival Strippers broke from that mold, moving towards relationships and networks. The event of the photograph became an assimilation into that environment; it was very interactive, with people choosing whether to participate.

Those early projects, 44 Irving Street and Carnival Strippers are included in Collaboration because they represent key moments in my evolving practice. However, the next big shift for me came with the Kurdistan project, which represented a new stage in my work, this time inside history. By the time I was in Kurdistan, I was just one point on the map of history. I included a timeline of image-makers, and I was only one of many. When I worked in Nicaragua in 1978, I was still more centered in the experience, but by El Salvador, I was working collectively with a group of photographers. By the time I got to Chile, my role was to bring together the work of Chilean photographers living under Pinochet.

In Kurdistan, I was again a part of a much larger history of image-makers. This timeline of collective history was a progression from my earlier, more personal experiences of the encounter, like in 44 Irving Street and Carnival Strippers.

Lastly, I do miss including the Molotov Man in Collaboration because I learned so much from that image. The Molotov Man taught me about the circulation of images, the question of who owns the image, and how it can be reframed and redeployed without my control. It also made me realize that I couldn’t protect the rights of the individual in the photograph, who had become a symbol of the Nicaraguan revolution. That image raised complex questions about the power of images, especially when they are used without the subject’s consent.

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The photograph only shows one temporality, but other moments are embedded behind that one. I was playing with the idea of how to provoke those questions.

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AD: Yes, we have a specific question about the Molotov Men that I’d like to explore further. Listening to you, I’m reminded of the type of artist I prefer to work with—those who understand their responsibility in the creative process. Your work exemplifies this, as you don’t just create images; you also engage with the subjects, involving them in the narrative.

I’d like to focus on the participatory role of the person being photographed. While we know participation can be vital, it doesn’t always equate to consent; sometimes it can be coercive or even violent, as you’ve mentioned. What kind of negotiations occur between you and the subjects you photograph? How does this dynamic challenge your understanding of authorship?

SM: There’s definitely a sense of co-authorship involved. It’s less about «permission» and more about building trust and understanding what will happen to the image, as I mentioned. Over five decades of work, this has been a significant part of my learning curve. When I initially create an image, I instinctively bring it back to the viewer to invite a response. However, I can’t do that in Nicaragua during a war. Instead, I can revisit those images decades later, choosing to present them in different contexts.

Finding the subjects of photographs in Nicaragua was a challenge. I chose to do it there, but when I tried to do it in El Salvador, it was much more problematic. I couldn’t. But there was something about the bonding of that experience in Nicaragua that laid a kind of groundwork for revisitation. Continuing to revisit those photographs in time with the community became very much a part of that investigation. What do these pictures in time mean to the people who are in them, to the people who have seen them, or to those who never knew about the history that they represent? All of that.

You can’t apply this approach to every project, but in my practice, I notice that certain projects prompt me to explore different kinds of questions—not always, but I can recognize the seeds of that exploration. I often wonder why I return to specific places or why certain themes linger with me, finding new expressions 20 years later. So, it’s intuitive. It’s about living within your own sensibility, within your own set of ethical questions, some of which are unresolved or provoked by others.

Participation, I would say, depends on each of these. Each project offers different opportunities for participation. One project you may not know, but that is going to be up again, is Crossings. It’s just returned to Texas, having been at the Art Institute of Chicago in 1990. I’d love for you to see it. I’m very happy it’s up, because it’s now about the border. It’s 34 years later, and the dynamic of the question about the border continues.

In Crossings, I made panoramic photographs with a wide-lens camera, interspersing images I had made a decade before in El Salvador and Nicaragua. The underlying idea is that anyone crossing a border comes from somewhere, often carrying the weight of traumatic political, economic, or personal reasons for their exile. This «carrying within» is not always visible to those who either try to keep these individuals out or allow them in. I aimed to open up this process, inviting viewers to engage with their own set of questions when encountering people in transit: Where are you from? When did you leave? Why did you leave? What do you miss? What conditions led to that choice?

The photograph only shows one temporality, but other moments are embedded behind that one. I was playing with the idea of how to provoke those questions.

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It was a leap of faith and curiosity, which I think still carries me to places. I like that unpredictability—I don’t want to know what I’m going to see. What’s the point of going if you already know?

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AD: Is Crossings open now?

SM: Yes, it’s open through December at Texas State University.

AD: With your response, you anticipated my next question, which is about how you understand collaboration when photographing sites of conflict. You mentioned the importance of returning to put those images back into the communities that were the protagonists of your work.

SM: There are other examples as well. In Nicaragua, for instance, I had never covered a war before, so I had no idea what to expect.

AD: What was your role in that situation?

SM: I started by photographing public expressions of protest—the student closures of the university, factories, and so on. However, when the insurrection began, I found myself in a level of conflict I had never experienced before. Each war has its own dynamics; it was different in El Salvador, different in Guatemala, etc. But speaking specifically about Nicaragua, I was able to access places that Nicaraguan photographers, for various reasons, couldn’t or didn’t access. My first collaboration, you could say, was with La Prensa, the opposition newspaper, to make visible what was happening two or three hours outside Managua, where their own photographers hadn’t been able to record.

Then, when the opposition newspaper got bombed by Somoza toward the end of that year—maybe eight or nine months after it all began—that destroyed the archive of the local photographers. My next engagement, you could say, was to bring back the photographs that other foreign photographers had taken out of Nicaragua. We brought them back for the first anniversary to reflect on what had happened in that year. These ideas come from understanding the conditions that are beyond your control but create opportunities to interact differently.

AD: Just to highlight the context of this interview, since you mentioned it—what was the reason you went to Nicaragua?

SM: I read an article in The New York Times about Pedro Joaquín Chamorro being assassinated by Somoza. It was a shocking article, and I had no idea where Nicaragua was. After reading it, I met someone who had been there, which sparked my interest. That was in January; I think Chamorro was killed on January 10th, and I read about it the following day. However, I didn’t go until June 1st. It was a significant transition for me to travel somewhere where I knew nobody and didn’t speak Spanish. This was a completely different way of working compared to my earlier work on Carnival Strippers, which involved following a fair just a few hours from New York. Getting on a plane to an unknown destination was a totally different process.

It was a leap of faith and curiosity, which I think still carries me to places. I like that unpredictability—I don’t want to know what I’m going to see. What’s the point of going if you already know? One of the problematic aspects of our current lives is our attachment to our phones; we think we understand places we haven’t truly experienced. That’s a whole other conversation.

AD: Yes, this is an important point about how smartphones are impacting our capacities—they can expand our understanding, but they also limit how we experience places today.

Another key concept in your book is the idea of photography as ongoing work, never fully completed. When we look at your body of work, we see an increasing focus on the impact of your photography on the communities you document. How do you address temporality in your practice? For instance, over three decades, you’ve returned to Nicaragua to reconnect with the people you photographed and recorded their testimonies. How has this exploration of temporality allowed you to engage with the idea of collective memory?

SM: Well, rather than asking a question, you’re making a statement! You seem to understand exactly what I’m trying to pursue and gain a greater understanding of. It’s interesting because this perspective extends beyond the pictures I create and return to, or the communities I revisit. For example, when I’m working in Kurdistan, I’m just as interested in who took the photograph at a particular moment, who is in it, and what event the photograph captures. It’s about dissecting and deconstructing.

There are two books that use a very similar method: Kurdistan and Encounters with the Dani. In both cases, I’m trying to deconstruct and reconfigure how photographs come to be in the life cycle. It’s particularly striking with the Kurds and the Dani, as they don’t know how they’ve been represented for the most part. So it’s about creating a new temporality by bringing together a collection of work that the community itself can reflect on, not just scholars. This is particularly true in Kurdistan, where communities are divided by different nation-states and remain invisible in some ways.

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These lifelines have their own logic. And the way images can evolve over time is often unexpected.

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AD: I keep reflecting on everything you’ve said, and my mind is going in several directions. Another question that comes to mind is related to the Congress title, How Photography Helps Us to Live Now. This title suggests a connection between the power of images and their ability to shape our thinking, ethics, behavior, and even our ways of life and political participation. I find this intersection between photography and citizenship particularly compelling. How have citizens mobilized and appropriated your images as documents of collective action? You’ve been intentional about this in your work, especially in projects like The Life of an Image: The Molotov Man, which you presented last year in Antwerp.

SM: Yeah, I don’t know… there are different ways to respond to that question. When I think about Chile, for example, where I went as a photographer, it was hard to access as a foreigner. It wasn’t as extreme as what we’re seeing now with foreigners being unable to access Gaza, but it was difficult. Until 1988, Chile was largely closed off, and when I did finally get in, I discovered an entire group of Chilean photographers who were doing impressive documentation of their lives under Pinochet.

When we put together the book Chile from Within in 1990, no Spanish publisher was interested in it, so we decided to publish it in English. This was upsetting, even though there were many Chileans in exile across Europe and the U.S. However, we traveled the exhibition across America, which was an interesting experience that helped raise awareness.

When you talk about citizenship, both the Chilean show and El Salvador: The Work of Thirty Photographers traveled through public libraries, small galleries, and universities to bridge two worlds that were largely unknown to Americans—unless they had encountered people from those regions. This remains even more relevant today. It struck me as particularly significant because, in El Salvador, the U.S. had direct military intervention and support. I felt it was crucial to show what was happening through the lens of these photographers’ work.

What’s interesting about Chile is that not only was there no Spanish edition of Chile from Within, but it also took ten years for those photographs to be exhibited in the Museo de Bellas Artes in Santiago. The photographers had kept their work under their beds for years, reflecting on a past that society wasn’t yet ready to confront. Remarkably, it took another fifteen years before these photographs circulated widely throughout Chile, despite having been published in a book and shown across the U.S. and Europe.

These lifelines have their own logic. And the way images can evolve over time is often unexpected. For example, with the Molotov Man—which I portrayed in the Life of an Image—I show the image’s journey from the black-and-white contact sheet to the famous shot of the man throwing a Molotov cocktail. You see this moment iterating over time: in magazines, on match covers, and even in a Xerox sent by the Contras to raise funds for their war against the Sandinistas. And then, in 2018, the ultimate iteration happens—students protesting President Ortega are wearing the Molotov Man on t-shirts as a symbol of resistance. This is the same image being reclaimed by a new generation, regardless of what Pablo Arauz, the man in the photograph, might think.

The wall I created documents this journey, with video clips of Arauz acknowledging the photograph as him, but also with him not fully able to speak about how he feels about it. I would say this is the image I’ve learned the most from. When I took it, I was just there on the street, trying to capture a moment, never imagining how it would live on in time and affect the man in it as well.

AD: Are you familiar with the book The Insubordination of an Image by Ángeles Donoso? She participated in the Congress last year and is a great scholar. Her book focuses on documentary practices in Chile.

SM: Yes, I know her. I’m not sure what she’s working on now, though.

AD: We have plans to do something with Paz Errázuriz, as she just published a book about her this year.

SM: I wish you could have brought Paz to the Congress. Perhaps the Chilean cultural department would fund her visit…

AD: But all of that takes years. Latin America is so complex. We’ve been discussing this for a long time.

SM: It’s a shame. She was part of my Chile from Within project. We’re old friends, but I haven’t seen her in a few years. Her presence would have been a wonderful surprise and gift.

AD: Well, you’ve set me a challenge there.

SM: Given the current leadership in Chile, I don’t think it’s impossible. So, do you have two and a half weeks to pull it off?

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I believe images can belong in different contexts.

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AD: Let’s see… Okay, but I want to momentarily shift away from the interview to discuss something I’ve been contemplating a lot. When I consider the situation in Cuba and its recent history, I feel we lack compelling images. The narrative of the revolution, which was widely disseminated through photography, left us without a visual repository. Take the protests on July 11, 2021, for example—people flooded the streets, yet there was still a lack of powerful images to effectively communicate their struggle. Without that visual impact, it’s challenging to mobilize the international community to pay attention to what was happening.

SM: We should explore this topic from a different angle. I want to share two things: First, I plan to come down to you. If it’s not during WOPHA, it will be shortly after. I’ve been revisiting the photographs I took in Cuba in 1977 to understand the context of that year, especially since it was when the intersection with the U.S. opened up under Carter. There were seven of us who traveled across Cuba together, and I want to find someone to examine this experience with me, whether from lived experience or not.

And the other thing is, two years ago, I collaborated with Carol Bengelsdorf, who spent six or seven years conducting oral histories with the clandestinas. She has a substantial book coming out from Duke [University Press]. I went to Cuba for ten days to research in the archives and the family collections to visualize who these women were. I’ll also share that with you.

AD: Yes, please.

SM: That’s another piece of history. But you’re talking about the protest, and of course, that makes me think of Gaza and Ukraine. It doesn’t have the same kind of explosion.

AD: Exactly, and it raises the question of how people respond to pain. When do we reach a tipping point? This takes us in a different direction, but it’s similar to the images of Gaza or war: what is the moment that produces an image like George Floyd’s, where everyone collectively says, “This is enough; it has to stop”?

SM: Yes, yes…

AD: What are the elements that create such an impactful image? How is that image constructed?

SM: That’s the crux of it. There’s a wonderful word in Spanish: coyuntura—or “chispa.” This opens an important conversation for historians, image-makers, and political scientists alike. It’s a great observation. I haven’t seen enough about it.

AD: Exactly. For me, I’m constantly searching for that image that can spark transformation or embody the feelings many people are experiencing right now. That’s my quest.

Now, I’d like to ask about the role Central America has played in your practice. The region has often been marginalized in the history of photography, a reality you’ve acknowledged in works like El Salvador: Work of Thirty Photographers. How do you position your practice in relation to the region, especially regarding the archive and the concept of visual repatriation or restitution? This is something I’ve been contemplating a lot. Do you have thoughts on where your images should belong?

SM: Oh, that’s such a great question because I believe images can belong in different contexts. In Nicaragua, during the 1978-79 period, we brought together multiple photographers, both European and American. For the first anniversary of the Revolution, we organized an exhibition that became part of the Museum of the Revolution. However, that museum was buried during the Contra War around 1983-84 to protect the history of the Revolution.

I also contributed a much larger body of work to the University of Central America in Managua, specifically to the Institute of History, which also became my partner when we brought back the murals in 2004 for the 25th anniversary. We focused our efforts on four specific towns, as the Sandinistas did not control many areas at that time, so it wasn’t possible to get the mayors to agree to let me reinstall the photographs except in certain places.

I believe the Institute of History is now closed. Since the resistance in 2018, the director has resigned, and I’m uncertain about the current status of the work there. The project El Salvador: Work of Thirty Photographers exists as a set of prints at the International Center of Photography (ICP) in New York. Additionally, there is a set of prints in the Museum of the Word and Image (MUPI) in San Salvador, which was founded shortly after the peace negotiations. MUPI is an extraordinary local archive managed by Carlos Henríquez Consalvi, a Venezuelan who also established Radio Venceremos. He continues to raise funds to support the museum while traveling parts of its archive. The Work of Thirty Photographers is included in that collection.

So, the answer to where these works can be found is that they can exist in multiple locations. They are also in my studio, and I bring pictures back to the people. Nowadays, individuals reach out to me after seeing photographs of themselves online, so there isn’t a singular repository for this work. Where my own archive will ultimately end up remains an open question.

AD: Lastly, you’re presenting the book Collaboration: A Potential History of Photography in the context of the Congress. Could you walk us through how this project began, how it has evolved over time, and some of the challenges you encountered along the way?

SM: Well, that’s a long story, and we’ll delve into it at the Congress. It actually began over coffee with Wendy Ewald, who was staying with me in New York. Wendy and I have known each other since my early work on the Polaroid book. About ten years ago, while sitting at Mo Street, I asked her, «How did this notion of collaborative practice come to what you were doing?» This sparked a series of conversations that eventually included ArielaAzoulay, Laura Wexler, and Leigh Raiford. Over time, we became this group of five.

We incorporated other voices through workshops and labs where we invited feedback. The project was shaped by a diverse community of practitioners, scholars, theorists, and historians. It took ten years to evolve, and we gradually brought in new perspectives. We moved from simply presenting our work to reaching a consensus on how to present it effectively, which evolved into eight clusters. These chapters are enriched by the contributions of both younger and older scholars, fostering a dialogue between practitioners and thinkers.